


Get a Hold of Yourself, Herald

by InvincibleRodent



Series: Raymond Trevelyan [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Imagination, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Skyhold, Religious Guilt, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4015867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"He knows what the Chant teaches about selfish pleasures, and for a long time, he believed it as well- that is not to say he hasn’t touched himself before, but he has always felt the weight of the guilt pulling down his shoulders afterwards. [...] But there are no servants here, and there is nobody to hear... Mother is not here to look at him disapprovingly, as if she knew what he had done [...]. There is only him and his conscience in this deafening silence, and not even the Maker speaks to him."</em>
</p><p>The Herald of Andraste is sexually frustrated, and the arrival and <em>continued presence</em> of a distressingly attractive, mouthy mage is really not helping. I suck at titles; please just take the smut and don't judge me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get a Hold of Yourself, Herald

**Author's Note:**

> So Ray is devout. And a leftie. I'm almost certain no one human has fretted this much over a wank before. Also the Mark vibrates.
> 
> If anyone is interested, here are the links to [the screenshots](http://41.media.tumblr.com/47249470df522ac6352f1d6c06c297da/tumblr_norpu0X7L01s8u7d2o1_1280.png) [of his face](http://40.media.tumblr.com/b005510cfecb519ec7fe265271b085d1/tumblr_norpu0X7L01s8u7d2o2_1280.png) again. :)

Releasing a long, heavy breath, Raymond throws his left forearm across his eyes. Even with his fist clenched tight, the sickly glow that’s emanating from between his fingers is hard to ignore- even harder in the dead of the night, alone in the hovel assigned to him as the Herald. The Mark, the only source of light, paints everything a disgusting, rotten color; a permanent reminder of its presence.

 _Sacrilegious_. That’s what all of this is, that’s all he feels as he hesitantly trails a hand along his thigh and cups himself under the covers, but his right hand... It doesn’t even feel good. It just feels clumsy and awkward. It’s... not the same.

He lets out an impatient sigh and pushes himself up into a sitting position, legs folding under himself. Both his hands lay on his lap, his right draped over his left in a weak attempt to conceal that bloody light.

 _Touched only by Andraste, and literally nobody else_ , he smirks in bitter amusement and scratches at it, absent-minded. With that damned mark, he hasn’t even managed to justify touching himself, for what feels like at least a bloody month. A frustrating, long month full of danger, destruction, and the weight of what seemed like all of Thedas on his shoulders, and _by Andraste’s flaming knickers_ , was it getting fucking irritating. Under these circumstances, of course he would snap at a poor recruit delivering Josephine’s message. It was barely more than a promise of two more hours of passive listening and occasional nodding anyway, he reasons poorly.

He stares down at his hand, studying the Mark cutting his palm in two for a thousandth time, the scowl etched into his forehead. The flesh is marred, uneven, and the fissure, the window to the Fade... it opens, like a twisted smile that taunts him, insults him at every flex of his fingers- _‘Go on, you heretic. Use the hand touched by the Maker’s Holy Bride to satisfy your own, shameful desires’_. It crackles, a twisted imitation of a laugh, and flickers with a revolting, acidic green color.

Raymond groans, and rubs his unmarked hand along his face. It’s just not fair- he has been a devout Andrastian his whole life, he sings the Chant, he believes in the Maker and his Holy Bride without questions, and this is what he gets for his obedience? Being forced to lead a heretical movement is all fine and dandy, death looming over his head is something he can get used to, but not even getting to jerk off in peace because his own hand taunts him? If the Maker really did bestow this Mark upon him, he either has little grasp of the magnitude of his quest, or a truly sick sense of humor.

But it’s not just the stress of responsibility that eats at him... No, this blighted heretical movement also _has_ to be full of unreasonably attractive people. The troops just have to be lead by a man who looks like he had just stepped out of a fairy-tale, with classically attractive, rugged good looks and a tiny scar that twists and stretches over his lip every time he smiles. The mercenary captain just has to have a distressingly well-built, scarred barrel of a chest, a baffling aversion to shirts, and a deep, rumbling voice that chills barmaids and recruits to the bone alike. Even the blighted fatherly Grey Warden with the somewhat goofy forest of hair on his face has to chop firewood with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the muscles of his back flexing under his shirt and his arms stretching with every swing...

And _Maker_ , let us not even get _started_ on the newest addition to his frustrations. The one who made him instantly forget all about everyone else who has ever crossed his vision, the one who sauntered into his life - _because that man is incapable of just walking, no, even his steps are_ obscene _and full of a grace only a nobleman can possess_ \- and took over his thoughts with a flick of his wrist and a charming smile.

That mage. The one who had dragged him across his worst nightmares; the one who was there when he watched his best friends die for him, the one who had said _‘I’ll protect you’_ -to a man in full plate armor while wearing a glorified bathrobe no less-, and meant it, made him believe it. _Thoughtful and kind, even though he would be the one protesting such accusations with the most vehemency_.

That bewilderingly attractive mage, the one with the flippant attitude, bold words, and a silly mustache... and beautiful, hawk-like gray eyes, and invitingly full lips that curl around his words... The one with honey in his voice, and a sophisticated lilt that tickles the back of Raymond’s neck every time he opens his Maker-forsaken mouth. That enticingly smooth, dark skin, revealed in patches around his neck and on his shoulder; oh if only he could just peel off those stupidly intricate leathers...  
It’s the warmth between his legs that halts Raymond’s imagination. He drops back on the pillow with a soft huff, and lifts his hand over his head to stare into the green glow; his eyes defiant.

He knows what the Chant teaches about selfish pleasures, and for a long time, he believed it as well- that is not to say he hasn’t touched himself before, but he has always felt the weight of the guilt pulling down his shoulders afterwards. It was a heavy burden, and it was shameful, but as a young boy... He has done it, more times than he would have liked to admit, and more times have the servants walked in on him with his hands under the covers for seemingly no reason whatsoever.  
But there are no servants here, and there is nobody to hear... Mother is not here to look at him disapprovingly, as if she _knew_ what he had done, despite never even having come near the room he once shared with his brother since Maxwell was taken to the Circle. There is only him and his conscience in this deafening silence, and not even the Maker speaks to him.

He gives his fingers an experimental wiggle, and the scar-like opening of the Mark undulates with the skin. By all accounts, it looks... fairly normal. Not pretty, but no different from the way it has looked since he got it. His skin is somewhat puckered around it, a bit rough, like a badly healed scar, but as he trails his other index finger along it, the Mark seems... tame. It glows, but it doesn’t give off heat, and it doesn’t hurt to touch it either. And the casual flickers of light, well... With how little they know about what the Mark even is, for all intents and purposes, it might just be supposed to do that.

He clenches his fist, and with a deep breath, he thrusts that hand under the covers. _If the Maker was ever going to smite me, this is the perfect opportunity._

A closed-mouthed groan slips past his lips as he roughly cups himself, already growing harder under his touch. The Mark is foreign, but not unpleasant, and his eyes slide shut at the long-awaited sensation. For a second he stills, as if waiting for the divine punishment -a stray lightning could perhaps smite him right where he is now, or better yet, he could find that his penis had been turned into a venomous snake... The Maker is the creative sort when it comes to deaths, after all-, and his tongue briefly darts out to wet his lips. _Alright, the desecration is over and done with, where were we? Yes, intricate leathers._

Shame numbs his hand for just a moment, but with a shaky sigh, he pushes those thoughts back to the edge of his mind, where they came from. Raymond imagines his fingers hooking into the opening just above that blasted mage’s heart, and tugging at the shirt to reveal an inch more skin, and a pert nipple with it; those lush lips twist into a teasing smirk as they step closer to one another, close enough to touch. Those amazing eyes crinkle at the corners, amused, and he can almost _feel_ the other man’s breath on the hollow of his throat.

The real Raymond, the one not so close to the object of his affections, softly kneads at his covered length under the covers. His thumb trails over the whole of it as it slips comfortably into his hand, the ball of his palm applies a gentle pressure on the sensitive head. The fabric of his smalls already feels somewhat damp at the tip.  
In his mind, hands that are not his own, hands the color of polished bronze, trail along his arms and slip to the back of his neck; blunt nails scratch gently at his scalp, and he arches into the touch in bliss. A set of lips, soft and pliant, slant over his- first sweet and languid in their brushes, then insistent, as a tongue slips into his mouth, and he shivers. Raymond briefly wonders if that mustache would tickle his nose if they were to kiss. He barely represses a grin, and immediately chastises himself for it- _to sin with a grin, excellent job at being the holy figurehead of the whole Inquisition._

The Mark blinks and crackles, and an unexpected, but frighteningly pleasant vibration sends a jolt of pleasure up his spine. A deep, guttural moan slips from his lips- his movements stutter, and he -hesitantly- pulls his hand away, but the Mark still looks harmless. The sound is not threatening- it’s almost just a whisper, the familiar buzz of magic he has come to know fighting alongside mages. The scent reminds him somewhat of ozone.

 _So the Mark can do that, too. That’s... interesting_ , he thinks, and closes his eyes with a shuddering breath at the sheer lewdness of the thought. Shakily, he snakes the hand back under the covers, anticipation coiling in his stomach. He takes a sharp breath when his fingers brush the bare skin shyly and slip into the waistband of his linen sleeping trousers, following coarse trail of hairs just under his navel and drawing a muffled sigh.

With his cheeks burning in guilt, he thumbs at the ties of his smalls, and clumsily tugs them loose before dipping his hand under the fabric and giving himself an experimental stroke; his breath quakes in tune with the pulses of the Mark. Raymond lifts his hips, only sparing a passing thought to the blasphemous edge of the action, and he pushes both his pants and smalls as far down as his arms can reach. He kicks them the rest of the way down, only a soft ‘thump’ and a puff of dust signals their unceremonious dive onto the ground. He makes a mental note to pick it up later.

 _Maybe... Dorian would be more assertive_ , he thinks, worrying slightly on his lower lip- _from the way that man flirts, he is sure to be bold in bed as well_ , and Raymond reaches down to hesitantly grasp an asscheek with his free hand, imagining it to be the mage’s. Dorian’s would be less calloused, maybe a touch more slender, with longer fingers... The hand of a scholar, but not without power. From how he handles the staff, how his arms flex, his physical strength seems.... extraordinary for a mage, and absolutely delighful.  
The cot feels warm despite the fire having gone out hours ago, and the homespun blankets scratch pleasurably against his heated, flushed skin. His hands slip under his worn cotton tunic, work it up till the fabric bunches up at his clavicles, and Raymond drags his nails down the planes of his chest, quietly sighing at the sting. Dorian would probably tug at his lower lip, and his kisses would bite, inching slowly down his neck, sucking at pulse points; marking the ‘Herald of Andraste’ as his with small, blooming red bruises, the kind his armor doesn’t hide...

Raymond’s fingers finally curl around the base of his shaft, and he squeezes gingerly, almost just a suggestion of a hold, . His cock is heavy in his hand, and he momentarily allows himself to enjoy the hardness slipping into his grip. The jagged line of the Mark lays lengthwise on the underside- the raised skin presses against him teasingly as he flexes his hand; and he feels himself twitch as it hums. He lets out a long, heavy breath through his nose.

A noise. Raymond stills himself abruptly- even through his own ragged breaths and the blood drumming in his ears, he can hear the footfalls of the patrols in Haven reach just outside of his door, and he chuckles with guilt. This is just like it was back in his father’s estate, only it’s not servants who are watching his every step, and if they heard his careless gasps, they would probably break the door down for an entirely different reason. In all honesty, he would prefer them thinking it’s an assassination attempt over ‘the Herald is just touching himself’.

In just a few seconds -a few _agonizing_ seconds of stillness and bated breath-, the guards leave, and he huffs out a sigh of relief. _Where were we again?_

Dorian’s lips, yes. Raymond wonders if that mouthy mage would put his silver tongue to use, and he bites his lip roughly to stifle a groan at the mental image- Those sharp eyes, the gray of a dagger’s steel, stare up at him provocatively from between his legs, as Dorian trails his tongue along his length, from the base to the tip, where he adds a slight flourish because of _course_ he would show off. Raymond slowly drags his fist along his cock in unison with his imagination. He takes a moment to circle the head with his thumb, spread the moisture gathered there as if it was that wicked tongue, and a small, hitched moan slips past the seam of his lips. His free hand tangles itself in the sheets, as if it were Dorian’s hair.

He throws his head back against the pillow, and grins to himself- Dorian would definitely not let him touch his hair. He has seen the man’s annoyance when various weather phenomena messed with his perfectly quaffed locks, but that doesn’t stop him from picturing his hand slipping into those soft, black tresses and gently guiding the mage’s head along his shaft.

He begins to stroke himself, slow and deliberate at first- the roughness of his hand and the low hum of the Mark is now the soft, warm, downright divine wetness of the other man’s mouth and the croons, the moans of his voice, as those mesmerizing lips slip down, taking all of him... His wrist moves in time with the imaginary bobbing of the other man’s head. Raymond arches into his own touch as he feels the familiar heat pooling in his stomach, and he squeezes down on the base with a shaky breath. _No, not yet. If I’m defiling the Holy Bride, I better make the most of it._

Dorian would probably make a show out of this, just like everything else... He would bring his head up unhurriedly, and let Raymond’s cock slip out with an obscene pop, allowing it to flop back onto his stomach. Maker _knows_ how that amalgamation of buckles and ties he calls an outfit even works, but maybe... it wouldn’t take but the wave of a hand, a wisp of magic for those pesky clothes to slip from their naked forms.

Raymond reaches up to grasp the back of his collar, and he awkwardly tugs his undershirt over his head with his right hand, his left still fisting his cock. Flopping back, he imagines the other man stalking over to him, a predatory gaze in his eyes as he leans down to kiss him again... Raymond keens, almost inaudibly, as he pictures soft, affectionate kisses and those long fingers stroking gently in the place of his own, battle-roughened ones.

“Maker’s _breath_.” he sighs, and in his fantasy, he runs his hands along Dorian’s spine, kneading at his skin _-he would be smooth and muscular and he would carry the fragrance of Tevinter, something foreign and intoxicating-_ , down to his backside. That blighted _perfect_ backside. He would squeeze, and the flesh, _Maker,_ it would be firm yet pliant in his hands... He gives himself respite by trailing his hands along the trail running down his taut abdomen, as if they were the mage’s, and he scratches down, enjoying the twitches of his muscles under his own touch.

 _Maybe he would come prepared_ , Raymond grins in the dark, and buries the side of his burning face in his pillow, ashamed by the mere thought. Dorian would situate himself on top, eyeing him seductively, looking every bit the desire demon he is, and guide Raymond’s length himself... Aim it at his entrance, and sink onto it; slow, so tantalizingly slow. Those beautiful eyes would slide shut... No, better, they would never leave his face, not even as those irresistible lips open in a silent moan, and Raymond’s features contort in pleasure, his breath shallow and staccato.

Raymond wonders what the mage’s pleasure would sound like. Would his moans rumble low in his chest, free and sonorant, boisterous like his laugh, or would they soar to adorable, higher pitches as he chases his release? Or on the contrary, would he bite back every noise, and barely allow a sigh to show his bliss? Maker, he hopes Dorian is as vocal about his pleasure as he is about his displeasure, and he smiles at the thought.

Raymond lets out a soft hiss and bucks into his fist, and the tightness in his core clenches his limbs, curls his toes, and he digs his heels into the mattress. Whispered curses of the Maker’s name and Andraste’s holy figure fall from his lips as he fucks into his hand, eyes screwed shut, all he sees is beauty incarnate- the fine sheen of sweat coating Dorian’s perfect body glimmers in the faint emerald glow of his hand, the lewd snarl on his perfect face as his completion draws near, and sweet _Maker_ , his erection bobbing between their bodies, slapping against Raymond’s abdomen with each violent fall of his hips. Raymond would reach out and fist it, feel the velvet skin on his rough palm, and Dorian would groan... Maybe even fall on his chest in a whirlwind of lips and tongues, and they would kiss, passionate and _loving_ , lost in each other’s bodies.

He curls his lower lip between his teeth to stifle his groan, his right tangled in his own hair; a cheap imitation of the imaginary man’s fervent touch. He’s close, he can tell, and his hand speeds up- the coil in his stomach squeezes and tightens, like an angry serpent around its prey, and he has to bite down on his fist to silence the strangled moans of garbled blasphemy and jumbles of Dorian’s name that are now falling wantonly from his lips. The Mark fizzles and pops under the covers, the purring of it makes his arms shake and fingers twitch, the pleasure... _Maker_ , the pleasure is overwhelming, so close, he’s _so close_ , Dorian’s nails dig into his skin, and he breathes words of devotion into the darkness of his hut.

His completion seizes him, crashes into him with only slightly less force than a shield bash to the gut. Raymond arches off the mattress and bites down on his forearm to muffle his strangled cry as he spends into his marked hand under the covers. His hand continues to move, slow and shaky, for just a few more strokes as he revels in the aftershocks- each stroke brings a new wave of pleasure, and spills more over his hand until it feels like all the air has gone from the world and a jolt of pain mixes into the pleasure from the overstimulation.

He sucks in a long breath, and draws his hand back, out from under the covers, and stares at it- his palm, the mark of the Maker, still glimmers softly, but its light is dimmed by murk of his release splattered on it. He swallows past the lump in his throat and wipes it clean on the sheets- it doesn’t make him feel any cleaner, but at least the brightness brings some light back into the hut, and he surveys the damages.

His chest rises and falls with his rapid, shallow breaths. The sheets are mussed and stained with come, his hair falls over his brow in sweat-dampened streaks, and he suddenly feels the chill of the night air that has seeped into the room. And more importantly, the reality of the situation sinks into his mind, mars at his thoughts like a wild animal.

 _Sweet Maker, what have I done_ , he sighs. _Not only have I defiled Andraste’s gift, I also..._ He dares not finish that thought. Raymond rubs his right hand over his eyes- Maker, he will never be able to look Dorian in the eye again, not tomorrow, not for weeks, or at least not without seeing his beautiful, _beautiful_ face contorted in pleasure as he rides him and _sweet Andraste,_ they will never have a coherent conversation again. He has betrayed the mage’s trust and used him, and for what? A quick wank. Raymond suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to take a long, cold bath and scrub his body raw, just to feel clean again.

He decides against it when he tries to lift his arm- his whole body feels like lead, and a dull fatigue tugs at his consciousness. He turns over to his side and draws a stray pillow to his chest- _if I can’t have a lover’s embrace, this will have to do_ -, and imagines Dorian once more. This time, the mage is lying next to him on the remarkably uncomfortable, thin mattress, his hair tousled and eyes tired, but a lazy, satisfied, loving smile on his face. Dorian’s fingers trace his jawline before they cup his cheek, and he captures Raymond’s lips in a gentle kiss. He feels himself blush at the image, and a pang of sadness seeps into his heart- this, he really wants. More than anything, more than any other fantasy. He buries his burning face in the pillow he’s hugging, pretending it’s the other man’s hair, and he inhales deeply- if he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, he can almost feel a hint of the perfume Dorian uses, lingering under the scent of soap and his own sweat.

The Fade beckons, and he drifts to sleep with words of affection at the tip of his tongue.

* * *

The next day, he only stumbles in front of the mage twice, only gets tongue-tied three times before he can choke out a “good morning”. Only flushes a bright red once when Dorian smirks in amusement.

**Author's Note:**

> btw, the working title of this was "holy handjob", which may or may not be worse than the one I decided on less than a minute before posting. That probably says something about me as a person, and I'm not sure if I want to know what. But I did just write almost 4000 words about my character jerking off instead of studying, so... yeah, I have absolutely no excuse.
> 
> I still have my [tumblr](http://www.weresquirrel.tumblr.com), and I still desperately crave attention.


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